Gerard Manley Hopkins said it best in Spring and Fall: To a young child:
Márgarét, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
…It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
These words come to my mind so often, but most of all now. This weekend, autumn is at its peak.
The green leaves have burst into their final flames, and will soon float down like cooled embers.
The colors are stunning, surreal, painted across the weeping sky.
And gone all too fast.
We have made our internal sorrow a veil over the whole world.
Day 118, and the poem was written in 1918. The closest I can get is a 1981 penny, found coated with green paint. A reversal of the numbers, just as the seasons will reverse.
